


To the Marrow

by wirewrappedlily



Series: Satellite [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: If you kill me you won't get the rest, M/M, don't ask: just read it, remember that - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8097553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirewrappedlily/pseuds/wirewrappedlily
Summary: "I'll take your time: I've used up all of mine." - Satellite, by Sara Hartman





	

The day James Bond had returned to the service of MI6, Q had been leading multiple ops around the globe: stretched thin, but somehow not as thin as running just one of James's ops managed to stretch him. Q was thankful of the deluge, though; it gave him an excuse not to think of Bond or any of the mess that came with thoughts of the man. It was a calm between the storms: he'd missed Bond, if he was being honest with himself. The git had been nothing short of ulcer-inducing in Q's short tenure as his Quartermaster, but there was...something. There was something unnamable and unstoppable and very bad for Q's health in between their banter and snark, and Q was a quick study; he knew his luck by now, he knew it wouldn't be good to indulge in idle wonder as to what could happen next. He was going to be in such trouble if he allowed himself to _think_. Q didn't need to think: Not while he had so much to do. He had to act if he wanted to keep his operatives alive, there wasn't time to think. If there was, he might not have realized it quite so soon that James was oddly sedate, lurking in Q-Branch and Six with the kind of solicitous attention to Q that it would make the man wonder if Six had put him as James's next target. Q didn't bother to pay much kind at first; James was not underfoot, and that was a vast improvement over the menace's penchant for needless explosives half way around the world right when Q was meant to be settling down with a good cup of tea and a new novel. James was nothing if not infuriating, though; even if he was playing nice. 

 

Q first noticed the sandwich and tea about a half minute after he'd started eating it. His hand had went to grope for some more of whatever it was that had tasted good, and he had started horribly, realizing that it could have been anything from a biochemical prototype to a dosed nibble from Medical, who had been after him for five of the last thirty hours to sleep. Q looked at the sandwich scrupulously after that realization, and it was only when Veronica had come bustling in huffing about her boyfriend that he was treated to an explanation. He'd been dissecting the damn thing at that point, and Veronica had narrowed her bright green eyes, pursed her lips and told him that it had been a perfectly respectable chicken salad Bond had delivered and he needed to go home now, before he dropped of paranoia and fatigue. When she threatened to turn Medical loose on him, he heeded her: it was provably not a threat to take lightly. 

 

Next came the trinkets; Bond picking up a tiny replica of the Taj Mahal as though that made a ten-million-quid prototype any less of a loss. Then a beautiful piece of silk painted with a geisha surrounded by water lilies came with every piece of tech back--in pieces, mind you, but back nonetheless. James's next missions had been through all of North and South America, one after another after another, and then James was back in Britain with a half-crushed right side, greeting Q in Medical with a grin and nothing else to offer him but an apology for neglecting to bring home a jar of dulce de leche that Q had no doubt would have been sinfully good if he'd gotten the chance to indulge. James had looked almost guilty, hooked into enough machines that their combined weight probably out did his own. Q sat in the guest chair as though his legs had suddenly lost all bone structure; and James's eyes had darkened, a grim look invading around the edges of the pained humour he was wearing as a mask. Q didn't want to think about what that expression meant; already had too much to contend with in trying to keep away the schematics and blueprints for replacement joints if the re-constructive surgeries didn't do as well as Medical had promised him they would; James would need a new shoulder before long, anyway, and Q might as well have made something for James's right knee, because one more leap off of a building and that would be shot to hell just as badly as the shoulder. James had submitted idly to the care and keeping of Medical: which Medical trusted about as far as Q could throw James without the aid of a gadget. James seemed to do this mainly because even though Q had had to leave him after he'd awoken, Q came back. James would stay in Medical, some part of Q that wasn't meant to be thinking thought, if Q would come back to him; would make sure he was alright. It took Q out of his empty apartment, bouncing between the uncomfortable chair and his empire of chaos and destruction, so Q thought it fair. 

 

The surgeries went very well indeed, and Q was thankful for that much, but when it came time for James to go home and recuperate...there was no way Q could be convinced to leave him now. Not alone, with no reason to take care of himself. 

 

James could manage, always did, when there was someone or something to live for. Someone that depended on him. So how would Q convince a--despite what even Q asserted--clever man that while Q did this to take care of him, he was the one that needed to be coddled? 

 

"You don't eat enough, Q." James told him gruffly as the man scowled his way into a jumper and jeans that were completely incongruous with his usual fashion sense, yet had been found by the minion Q had sent to retrieve something for Bond to wear that was loose enough to accommodate the bandages around James's shoulder and side. James looked none too happy to not be allowed into his bespoke, but Q was going to keep him bandaged for as long as he could get away with it. "You eat like you're starved whenever you come in here, you must get hungry. You're not very good at that part of maintenance, are you?"

 

In point of fact, Q ate with Bond how he ate always; food was to be enjoyed, taste and smell and texture. There could have been accusations made about Q's first love being food. But if Bond wanted to think he was the skinny boffin who needed fattening up...well, he could play that part, quite well really. "You'll have to keep an eye on me, then. Make sure I eat." The challenge hit home, James's lips thinning as he regarded Q with narrowed eyes. "You've been released into my custody. I was planning on getting you ensconced in your ridiculously posh flat with a nurse--a _male_ nurse who could bench-press you, mind you; so as to completely not be your type--and leave you to see how long it would take before he would try to kill you, but if you're so interested in the care and keeping of boffins, I could do as I was ordered and bring you back to mine." Q cocked a brow, shrugging, "Up to you." 

 

"You, Quartermaster, disobeying orders?" James's voice seemed to have wobbled and died in that sentence, and Q didn't bother to look up or acknowledge it; he knew why it happened, after all. Q had been breaking rules and disobeying orders left and right since they'd bloody met. Bond found his voice again, "And how would you know what my type is, Q? It's rare I encounter a man who could pin _me_ to a wall." Blue eyes glittered darkly, and Q viciously shut down all possible waves of want. 

 

"You're not one for being pinned to anything, James." Q told him primly, "Shall we?" 

 

Q brought James home with an irate voice in the back of his mind, a curl of panic in his chest as he wondered what the hell he should do about James in his two-bedroom flat in a loft on a side of London that, while not the greatest, provided him with everything he could ask for. He banged through his front door without a single ounce of grace, holding open the heavy metal door while studiously ignoring James's look of amusement. Q took James's overnight bag from him, ushering him into the open-concept apartment without daring to glance at the man's expression. 

 

The light of the apartment was astounding, even for a grey London Wednesday. Q had made a rule for himself when he'd purchased the apartment after his promotion: no work was allowed to happen in this sanctuary. He had no bundles of cables or soldering equipment or anything else he felt almost sure James expected of him. "This is home." Q introduced quietly. "There's a bathroom across the hall from the guest room just down that hall--" 

 

"Q, this place is beautiful." James told him, voice halfway to awed. "Why do you spend so much bloody time at work when you have this place waiting for you?" 

 

Q swallowed down his reply, turning his head to take in the bright, shining glass sculptures he'd collected for years waiting for a place with enough light to show them off. He hadn't bothered to paint the walls; the glass was bright enough on its own down here. The spiral staircase leading up to his loft bedroom and master bath had stained glass panelling that he had designed, even if he lacked the skills to create himself. He had only cactuses and succulents that needed little time and attention, and the loneliness of it still pressed on him with James leaning on his crutches just three feet away. He had made it beautiful, but he hadn't been able to make it any more welcoming. 

 

"You have an eye for art, I see. Though not a bloody big ship to speak of." James murmured softly. 

 

Q snorted, shaking his head, "I don't actually like the two-dimensional versions of pieces like these. Modern art rarely speaks to me." He had a few paintings and photographs for which he'd made an exception, all of them upstairs. 

 

"Judging by the colour, I'd take you for a fan of abstract, but that's misleading. You like Monet and the like, don't you? A subtler use of the colour." 

 

"Very astute, 007," Q chuckled, "now let's get you and your mind reading settled in, shall we?" 

 

Leading the way down the hall, Q flipped on the light in the guest room, a soft glow casting the gentle green of the walls a little more gold than they were normally. The bed sat between two windows facing the apartment's view of the city; his own bed, a level above, sitting against the opposite wall to look out on those windows. Q set the bag on the bed, opening the side zip to extract a line of medications for Bond, arranging them along the top of the empty bureau along with the pieces Q had decided looked better admidst the sea foam green. "I would've taken you for dark, rich colours, Q." 

 

"I work underground, Bond, I'll take light where I can get it." Q laughed, "The dark, rich colours are lovely, but I don't want to always be in the dark." 

 

James nodded to himself, resting his crutches beside the bed and only slightly groaning as he lowered himself gingerly onto the mattress. 

 

"Are you in pain?" 

 

"Only when I move. Or breathe." James laughed softly, "It's nothing, just the bits the painkillers can't quash." 

 

Q hesitated before he unzipped the bag, pulling out clothes, "I don't think I'll be much for cooking tonight, I'm afraid. I have some left over chicken and dumpling soup I can reheat if that will satisfy." 

 

"You cook?" James asked, his voice soft. 

 

"Barely. I rarely have the time." Q admitted, "Or the energy." 

 

"I can help with that." James offered, "If you'll tell me what to get prepared, I can do the dirty work." 

 

Q flushed, "That would work swimmingly, I think." He quickly unpacked for Bond, ignoring the urge to be embarrassed. 

 

"Thank you, Q." James murmured softly, his eyes dark and intense as he sat up with a groan to catch Q's wrist. Q felt like his bones were birdlike in James's hand; the man could break his body with hardly any effort at all. "For taking me in, and for everything else as well. I owe you, I have owed you since the start. More than just gratitude, but it's all I can offer." 

 

"You don't owe--" 

 

"You've saved my life and helped me more than any other person ever has, Q, do you realize that?" 

 

"It's my--" James gave him a hard look through his lashes, effectively stopping his words. 

 

"It went against your job several times, Q, and yet you did it." 

 

"I trust you. I trust your instincts." Q replied easily. "Even before...when we met in the Gallery, I knew you were the one who would prove to be right." 

 

James ducked his head, glancing down at his hand encircling Q's wrist easily, and he let go, looking back up at Q. "Your faith is superhuman, Quartermaster." 

 

Q shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'll let you rest now. Dinner in an hour?" 

 

"Thank you." James nodded, laying back against the pillows. Q resisted the urge to tuck the man in, turning and all but fleeing. 

 

The quiet of his apartment pushed in on Q, and with it came the thoughts Q couldn't afford to have. Flexing his fingers as if he could blame his tingling on something physical, Q dashed for the solace of warmth that didn't come from James Bond's bloody hand on his skin.


End file.
